A silken curtain veils the skies, And half conceals from pensive eyes The bronzing tokens of the fall; A calmness broods upon the hills, And summer's parting dream distils A charm of silence over all.

A silken curtain veils the skies,

And half conceals from pensive eyes

The bronzing tokens of the fall;

A calmness broods upon the hills,

And summer's parting dream distils

A charm of silence over all.

 The stacks of corn, in brown array, Stand waiting through the tranquil day, Like tattered wigwams on the plain; The tribes that find a shelter there Are phantom peoples, forms of air, And ghosts of vanished joy and pain.

The stacks of corn, in brown array,

Stand waiting through the tranquil day,

Like tattered wigwams on the plain;

The tribes that find a shelter there

Are phantom peoples, forms of air,

And ghosts of vanished joy and pain.

 At evening when the crimson crest Of sunset passes down the West, I hear the whispering host returning; On far-off fields, by elm and oak, I see the lights, I smell the smoke,— The Camp-fires of the Past are burning.

At evening when the crimson crest

Of sunset passes down the West,

I hear the whispering host returning;

On far-off fields, by elm and oak,

I see the lights, I smell the smoke,—

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